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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187357">And I wonder what became of you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthete_laureate/pseuds/aesthete_laureate'>aesthete_laureate</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Anal Sex, Bill Cipher is His Own Warning, Brothel Setting, Ford is not a hundred percent on board, Ford thinks a sex worker is Fiddleford, Guilt, How did I forget that, Inner Turmoil regarding Portal Incident 1, Kind of dubious consent, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Sex Work, brief description of disembowelment, oh crossdressing, sorry about that, that was the prompt, threat of harm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:01:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,763</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187357</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthete_laureate/pseuds/aesthete_laureate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not ideal, but it’s also far from the worst place he’s taken refuge over the past ten years. This bubble of existence is some kind of steam-powered, pseudo-victorian mess of turning gears and oppressive heat.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Cipher &amp; Ford Pines, Ford Pines/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And I wonder what became of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(Original summary from my word document: okay in one of the dimensions Ford’s at a brothel and Bill sees a whore who looks like F and is like hey go fuck him under duress itll be fun, for me.)</p><p>Why cant i write something normal for once? The world may never know.</p><p>Title from The Shrine by the Fleet Foxes :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-</p><p>It’s not ideal, but it’s also far from the worst place he’s taken refuge over the past ten years. This bubble of existence is some kind of steam-powered, pseudo-victorian mess of turning gears and oppressive heat. </p><p>On top of that, the only place with a bed to offer that had accepted the (admittedly, weird) coins Ford had managed to scrounge up a few dimensions over was this one, tucked up into the depths of the planet’s (extensive, labyrinthine) red light district. The rafters are exposed to the glowing reddish sky in places where the roof had simply worn off of the building, and the air in the poor excuse for a tavern on the main level hangs heavy with smoke and the steam that rises from large metal grates in the floor. Oh, well.</p><p> It’s warm, at least. Too warm, but it beats being cold.</p><p>What’s a little harder to ignore are the, ahem, the employees of the brothel. A couple of them have been circling Ford like he’s blood in the water, but so far he’d been able to fend them off by staunchly refusing to look up from his writing. He’s curled up in a booth far to one side of the room, the seat is made of worn red velvet (?) and it squeaks uncomfortably against the fabric of his clothing when he moves, no matter how small those movements are.</p><p>The bolder of the two, uh, the two ladies that have been lurking around said booth for a good portion of the night - it’s probably been four hours since Ford’s arrival, and three since the hazy red sun had apparently set, though there was only the slightest change in lighting between night and day here - puts her dainty, pale hand (slim, humanoid fingers, tipped with what look like small talons that graduate from black to red) on top of his journal page, and that earns her a cold glare.</p><p>It apparently doesn’t do anything to deter her, though, and she gives him a sultry smile before leaning down. Her breasts are doing their absolute best to spill out of her low-cut top, which is cross-laced up the front and cinched in around her waist in a way that looks painful.</p><p>She murmurs something in some low, rolling tongue that Ford doesn’t recognize (but he jots down a couple of sounds as he hears them, of course, to study later) and her hand moves up as if to touch his cheek. That hand is roughly batted away from his face, though, and he gives her another scathing look before his attention is suddenly diverted elsewhere.</p><p>It’s like static in his head, like the tuning of a CRT television, and he’s sure his expression falters as a familiar voice fills his mindscape.</p><p>“You don’t want her, you don’t want any of them! Jeez, when am I ever supposed to get any entertainment with you?”</p><p>Ford groans internally, which his little visitor can definitely hear loud and clear. ‘As if you couldn’t do whatever it is your class of being does for recreation with anything you wanted, regardless of if they wanted it,’ he thinks forcibly, holding his pen tightly in his fist. The woman is still there, is still trying to speak to him, but he can’t even pretend to pay attention to her anymore.</p><p>“That’s the thing about not having a physical form, there, Sixer, I can’t technically do anything. And it sucks!” Bill rolls his eye theatrically, and Ford can feel it. A shiver tries to go down his spine, but he sucks in a sharp breath and steels himself against it. “I was hoping to at least get some secondhand fun through you, but you’re as frigid as- as like, a fence post. A fence post about to join a convent. A fence post about to join a convent in antarctica.”</p><p>‘Shut up,’ he thinks, viciously, but he’s only met with shrill laughter.</p><p>He exhales heavily through his nose and lifts his eyes again, looking pointedly past the woman still trying to spark his interest, and then a cold bolt goes through his stomach and he suddenly sits up ramrod-straight. </p><p>At the far end of the room, through the haze of smoke and incense and curiously-dark steam, is a familiar silhouette.</p><p>And it’s impossible, it had been ten years, and anyway his assistant had left before the project even got up and running properly, but he’d still know him anywhere. He’s not wearing his glasses, but his hair is the same shade of light-brown-almost-blond. His back is turned, he’s engaged in conversation with some frequenter or another, but. When he turns his head just slightly so that he can see him in profile, the straight bridge of his nose is the same, the small, easy smile. Ford is up out of his seat before he even knows he’s moving, the woman shoved out of his way with an indignant little cry, but he’s so desperate to get closer to his old friend that the thought that he should apologize doesn’t even cross his mind.</p><p>As he fights his way through the crowd, bumping into a surly patron here, accidentally tripping over a waitress’s foot there, more and more details come into focus. It’s not possible. How did he get here? Why here? He has to tell him, has to try and express how sorry he is. The voice in his head is strangely quiet as he gets closer, chest tight and breath coming in short pants from the rush of adrenaline, from anticipation, from sudden, acute nervousness. </p><p>It’s Fiddleford, it must be, but.. he’s wearing something similar to what the employees of the establishment are wearing. A dark, low-cut upper garment that squeezes his abdomen into a softly rounded shape, red ribbons draped down over his shoulders in a vague approximation of straps, and as Ford gets closer he finds out that apparently even the short, layered skirt (made up of countless layers of sheer black fabric) - along with artfully ripped fishnet stockings - is there to complete the look.</p><p>He stops short, brows knit together in sudden confusion, and something rolls in his stomach when two things happen in his mind at once.</p><p>One, he realizes, it’s not Fiddleford after all. And two, a low, sinister snickering starts up in the back of his mindscape.</p><p>“Well. Well well well,” Bill crows, the sound deafeningly loud inside Ford’s head, and he flinches a little but his eyes stay trained on the whore he had mistaken for his research partner, who had turned around just a little further at the disturbance.</p><p>He’s frozen, mouth just slightly open, and he’s staring into too-familiar brown eyes (but this one is too young, looks to be about twenty, maybe even younger from up close) that blink up at him in demure bewilderment.</p><p>“Would you look at that, you totally thought that kid was Flashgash!” There’s a pause in which Ford swallows, heavily, throat clicking with the effort, and then, “Hey, listen, I have an idea. You can take it if you want. Ha, no, I’m just kidding, it’s an order. You’re gonna take him upstairs and give me something to be entertained by!”</p><p>“What, no,” Ford says, under his breath but still out loud, which makes the young man in question frown slightly, shifting where he sits on top of a small, round bar table.</p><p>“Oh,” Bill says, feigning politeness, “Oh, so you’d rather if I just-”</p><p>And then, clear as day, Ford’s vision is taken over by a scene that looks just like the one that’s actually in front of him - except in this version the familiar-looking whore is screaming himself hoarse, scrabbling at his own chest as bloody lacerations appear slashed across his skin, across his pale, freckled chest, ripping through the corset-like thing he’s wearing, delivered by some invisible blade. The fabric is cut clean away from his body, after a few unbearable moments, but then a particularly vicious cut makes him gasp sharply, eyes wide, a look of sheer, utter surprise on his face before his abdominal cavity splits clean open and viscera spills out of him, and he slumps to the ground.</p><p>The vision is over just as soon as it came, and this time the shiver carries all the way down Ford’s spine and into his limbs, making him shake himself as if he could dislodge the horror by doing so.</p><p>‘NO.’ He thinks, firmly, and now the nameless young man is offering him a tiny smile that makes his stomach twist, thinking about how that face had looked scrunched up in agony, and there’s sharp laughter in his head again.</p><p>“Your call, smart guy, just make the choice before I get bored.”</p><p>And so Ford inhales shakily, squares his jaw, and steps closer. If the kid (twenty is young, so much younger than Ford is now, when did that happen?) is too put off by his odd behavior, it doesn’t show. He just smiles again, and it’s a charming smile, maybe a little too practiced and maybe a little uncanny, but it makes him look sweet. Some perversion of exactly what he remembers.</p><p>He speaks English, and he also speaks it with the wrong accent, but it’s definitely a relief that he does. “Let me take you upstairs?” he says, with a tilt of the head and a soft touch to Ford’s forearm, standing up from the table. And despite the minute differences that are apparent to Ford’s trained eye, he really, really does look like Fiddleford. Like he had back in school, young and bright and- and gone, now. His fault. Ford gives a tight nod by way of response, unsure what exactly he’s supposed to say. The man seated at said table gives him a dark look, grumbling something to his companion sitting in the next seat over, but he can’t pay any mind to the other patrons for long because the whore’s hand curls around his arm, and before he’d even explicitly agreed to go with him, he’s being led to a narrow, hidden staircase behind the bar. </p><p>The steps are wooden and worn, and they creak hideously with every step, and they lead up to a second floor that resembles a hotel. Ford glances around furtively as he’s led down a dim hallway, steam still gushing upward out of vent openings cut into the thick carpeting, and pulled into a small bedroom.</p><p>It’s dark, illuminated by a single lamp that appears to be some sort of rock or crystal with a light mechanism inside it, and the low frameless bed is covered with a plush red quilt. </p><p>(Very red dimension, he muses in the part of his brain that’s still making notes to copy down in writing later, red sky, red light, red blood, red blanket.)</p><p>“Pretty nice place they’ve got going on here,” is what Bill has to say about the circumstances, and Ford just does his best to ignore the words in favor of staring at the nameless boy he’s going to have to.. he has to, well.</p><p>Said whore locks the door with a soft click, then turns to face Ford with that knowing little smile that’s both familiar and disquieting.</p><p>“I saw you looking at me, sir, from across the room.”</p><p>It’s better when he doesn’t talk, his voice is all wrong, but it’s not like he can tell him that, so he just blurts out “Ford. Call me Ford.”</p><p>The boy nods, eyes lowering, and takes a tentative step forward so that he can perch at the edge of the mattress. “Of course. I did, though, you looked like you saw something you liked. Ford.”</p><p>And he looks up from under his lashes when he says his name, and he looks so much like him, and unbidden a bolt of lust goes through Ford’s stomach. Maybe he missed his assistant more than he let on, and maybe he’d missed him for a long time, too. (If there’s tittering in the back of his mind at that realization, he doesn’t acknowledge it.) It’s followed immediately by a wave of disgust, though, at himself, at the past, and he’s somewhere between forty and seventy percent sure he might throw up before this is over.</p><p>“..yes,” he manages, stilted and awkward, and he just barely doesn’t flinch when the kid reaches out to take his hands. He looks at them for a moment, mild curiosity in his expression, turning Ford’s wrists gently from one side to the other. Before he can get too uncomfortable, though, before he can tug his hands out of his grasp, he stands up from the bed and arranges Ford’s hands about his waist.</p><p>The fabric of the corset-thing feels strange, somewhere between satin and rubbery, and Ford’s fingers twitch at the odd sensation. He’s not. Quite sure what to do, here.</p><p>The voice in his mindscape has no desire to wait for him to puzzle it out, though, and Ford is startled out of his lull with a sudden “Hel-lo, this is supposed to be fun. For me. Did you forget?” and in his mind’s eye he sees pitch-dark fingers curl into position as if to snap, and that spurs him into action.</p><p>He’s not sure what he’s doing, had never quite made this kind of activity a priority, but he has a general idea of how these things go. His hands slide around the strange, unnatural curve of the whore’s waist until he reaches the lacing up the front of the garment, and he takes in a short breath before tugging the knot at the top loose.</p><p>The kid laughs breathlessly once he’s free of the corset, letting it simply fall to the floor before pressing in just a little bit closer to Ford’s body.</p><p>He looks even more like him without the strange clothes. He’s got the same slight build, with the same narrow hips that are currently hidden under layers of fabric. But Ford slides both hands up under the skirt, and wraps them around those hips with fingers that only shake a little, and the boy looks up at him with round brown eyes and bites his bottom lip gently, and if he doesn’t think too hard about it, Ford is pretty sure he can go through with it.</p><p>“Fff..,” he breathes, something warm curling around his lower belly, and suddenly he has to get the rest of the clothing off of him, it’s all wrong. The skirt drops to the floor with minimal effort, but the fishnets might have a couple of new tears in them by the time Ford wrestles those off too. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the way that, when he shrugs out of his long overcoat and places it over the boy’s shoulders, he looks right. Looks perfect.</p><p>“Do you--” the boy starts, glancing down at Ford’s coat and pulling it a little further around his shoulders, but he’s cut off before he can finish the question.</p><p>“-shh,” Ford hushes him distractedly, taking a step back to undress himself, quick about it (although he keeps the knife tucked into his sock on the right side, just in case).</p><p>The kid keeps the coat on, watching Ford undress as he sinks down onto the bed, and there’s still that edge of bewilderment to his expression. But he smiles warmly again as Ford joins him on the mattress - says nothing about the scarring all down one side of his body, nor the burn mark that takes up most of his forearm - simply leans back onto his elbows as he’s guided onto his back and brushes his lips over Ford’s jaw lightly once he’s got him all but pinned to the bed.</p><p>His legs frame Ford’s hips comfortably, and the practiced ease doesn’t quite sit with him well (it’s a deviation from what all evidence would imply the real thing would be like) but it feels alright, and Ford uses one hand to tip the whore’s head back just slightly, just enough so he can take a good look at him.</p><p>He gets another small smile as he observes the kid’s face, taking note of the incredibly similar color of his eyes, the almost-perfect shape of his nose, the mouth that’s just slightly too full, lips a shade of pink that’s just a little too dark.</p><p>“..there’s no need to be nervous,” the boy whispers, reaching up to run a careful hand through Ford’s hair.</p><p>He draws in a deep breath, starts to shake his head, but then just lets go of the kid’s face and mutters, “..sorry.”</p><p>“What?” There’s that bright smile again, but when the whore laughs it isn’t the same, it isn’t right at all.</p><p>I’m sorry, he wants to say, I’m so, so sorry. He doesn’t. With a gruff clearing of his throat, Ford leans back a little until he’s kneeling more than hovering over the kid, and reaches down between his own legs. He’s not fully hard, but he’s not entirely disinterested either. And it’s not this boy’s fault, it’s just that it’s kind of difficult to get into the mood with the constant threat of unwittingly inflicting unspeakable harm on someone at any point during this. Interaction. Transaction. God, he’s going to have to pay afterward.</p><p>“You really love to get in your own way, don’t you,” Bill is starting to sound annoyed, which isn’t quite as dangerous as when he sounds bored, but it’s not like Ford wants to let him get to that point -  he’ll have to actually get things going, here. Alright. Okay.</p><p>“Nothing, never mind,” he shakes his head, waving one hand dismissively, and he’s about to reach back down to touch himself when the kid beneath him lifts his hips to grind against him instead.</p><p>He exhales slowly, trying to relax into it, and rolls forward against the boy’s body. It’s easier if he closes his eyes, so he does, and his hands come to rest on the kid’s hips a moment later. It’s. It’s not bad. It’s actually good, once they find a rhythm.</p><p>The warmth is back in his lower belly in no time as he parts his knees a little wider, and the kid makes a soft, breathy sound at the change in angle that might be performative but Ford doesn’t care because it’s sweet, and pleasured, and he might let out an abortive little groan in response.</p><p>Heat grows between their bodies quickly, Ford’s fingers flex on the whore’s hips and he sighs, gives a little “mm,” looks up at him with heavy-lidded brown eyes. A hand at Ford’s hip makes him pause in his motions before long, though, and soon that same hand grasps him at the base of the shaft, pulls upward with a teasing little swipe over the head at the end - and then he’s guided into warm, soft heat, swallowing down a moan in favor of a much more unflattering grunt.</p><p>He sinks forward, sheathing himself fully inside the boy’s body quickly - probably too quickly, he tries to warn himself, be careful, don’t hurt him - but he’s just rewarded with another sweet, heady sound that makes him feel equal parts aroused and disgusted.</p><p>“Ah,” the kid pants, looking up at Ford with that warm smile, and their eyes meet for a couple of unbearable seconds before he’s rolling his hips upward again. </p><p>It spurs Ford back into action, his hands moving to stroke downward over the kid’s thighs briefly before he takes a hold of his narrow hips again and starts to meet his movements with tentative thrusts that quickly turn rough, desperate.</p><p>He bites down on his own bottom lip too hard as they move with each other, trying to muffle the sounds that keep getting caught in his throat. The boy is tight and hot, not quite wet but instead kind of slippery inside, and it feels incredible. He’s moaning softly with about every other thrust, encouraging, and his hands skirt Ford’s sides, touch his back gently, his shoulders.</p><p>At some point, the boy reaches down between them with one hand, wraps it around his own thus-far neglected dick and starts to stroke himself. The action makes him tense just slightly, tightening down just a little, just enough for Ford to feel it.</p><p>He loses himself, just a little bit.</p><p>“I’m sorry, god, I-I’m sorry,” he gasps, tugging roughly at the kid’s hips as he tries to move faster, coming up on the edge of release.</p><p>The boy looks confused, then, but fortunately the expression doesn’t last very long. His eyes close tight, brow furrowing, and his back arches sharply as he comes onto his own stomach with a shrill gasp. Streaks of white paint the kid’s hand, his abdomen, and he moans low and sweet even as Ford continues to rock into him just this side of too hard.</p><p>It’s not long, then, it only takes a couple more thrusts and a slew of murmured, frenzied apologies until Ford tips over the edge and comes as well, shoving as deep into the boy’s body as he’s able to. He stays there a moment, rocking his hips in minute little circles, until he’s suddenly snapped back into his right mind by a jolt of static electricity down the spine.</p><p>He scrambles up off the bed, then, pulls his pants back on with shaking hands that make buttoning up his shirt a lot more of an ordeal than it really has any right to be. He holds a hand out toward the whore, expectantly, who looks back at him blankly until he seems to remember whose coat he currently has on.</p><p>“There, that was fun, right? I thought it was cute, right up until the end there. You ruined it with all that sappy emotional stuff, good going. So gross!” The voice in his head cajoles him, but he sounds amused. Not angry, which is, not good per se, but he’ll take it gladly.</p><p>“How much do I owe you?” Ford asks, trying to be nonchalant, and if his voice shakes the kid doesn’t let on that he noticed.</p><p>“Three standard units, eighteen coppers or twenty-six brass tacks,” the boy rattles off, and Ford fishes three of the gold-colored coins out of one of many hidden pockets on the inside of his overcoat.</p><p>He presses them into the whore’s hand and turns on his heel, familiar laughter echoing in the back of his head again as he leaves the establishment - he’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>alright it’s settled I love the prostitute and i’ve decided to name him Fortran Sullivan</p></blockquote></div></div>
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